(27) Empty

I knew the instant it happened. My heart wasn’t mine; it wouldn’t beat by itself. My walk was shared: I wasn’t me. I knew.

And I wasn’t hesitant. There was no process. It would never be; I would never let it. I knew.

And I was alone, care like words on a wire, echoing vaguely in a maze of hallways to my ear. I was alone, shuffling through rain and judgment, to a room empty of both. I was on my own, to reclaim my heart and my walk, and on my own, I did both. I would not have left without. I knew.

I sat with tortured gut, the ripping of my heart a tangible lurch in my throat. I sat, in a big comfy chair, in a room cold and free like nonchalance, with my tangible torture, and my lurching gut. I wasn’t sad. I knew.

And today, I rarely speak of it. I rarely say the words. I didn’t hesitate, and there are no secrets. But I won’t address the choice that wasn’t, because some judgment is just for me. Some judgment is mine alone and beautiful. And, I know.